


The Sweat of His Brow

by kingofrapture (orphan_account)



Category: BioShock
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pre-Fall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-11 04:37:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4421639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/kingofrapture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew Ryan didn't always hate Frank Fontaine. In fact, at one point, he may have felt quite the opposite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Longer His Own Master

Andrew Ryan sat at his desk, leaning to one side in the rolling chair, as he puffed on his pipe. He really wasn’t sure about this _Frank Fontaine_ , which was exactly why he’d called this meeting. While it might have been more prudent for him to have met the man in an office or a dining establishment in New York, he preferred for this to take place here. On his grounds. Someplace that he knew, where he was the one in control. After all, if the Fontaine was found lacking, he wouldn’t live to speak of the city. It was simply a risk that Ryan couldn’t afford to take. His very safety depended on the kindness of _Andrew Ryan_.   
  
And Ryan didn’t consider himself a kind man. There was a certain strictness starting to settle in his jaw-- a wrinkle next to his nose where a sneer had sat so many times. He glanced at his wristwatch, frowning. How on earth was the man late? Ryan had sent his personal bathysphere, had brought him to the city. If he was late, it was entirely by his own design. Ryan understood the need to make an entrance, it was a device he’d used in his favour more often than he’d care to admit. Yet _this_ \-- this was nothing less than rude.   
  
He tamped the pipe, more out of boredom than necessity. The tobacco was burning smoothly, the spicy latakia sizzling and glowing with each mouthful of white smoke. He really didn’t have time for this. If Fontaine wasn’t going to show, the least he could do was give Ryan some kind of advance warning. It was a waste of both of their time, and it reflected poorly on the man, he decided. He thumbed open the corner of a folder on his desk, reading the report beneath it idly.

The door slammed open and Ryan glanced up, his expression as disinterested as he could muster. He refused to grant the reaction that was sought after by treating his office so poorly. He made a mental note to automate the door systems, to remove the very potential for that sort of behaviour. His eyes dragged up and he got his first look at the man.  
  
He’d heard reports of Fontaine, of course. He wasn’t going to allow anyone willy-nilly into his city, not without an extremely thorough vetting process, so he’d had his men.. look into it, as it were. He was a ruthless businessman, self made, not unlike Ryan himself. Whether he was an immigrant or a born American was irrelevant to Ryan, although he had to admit that he was eager to hear the Fontaine’s voice.   
  
His suit was.. cheap. An off-the-rack ordeal, by the looks of it. Ryan could identify the label almost immediately, having seen many like it in one of those dreadful New York department stores. And yet.. cheap, though the suit might be, it had been altered to fit Fontaine’s figure. Not nearly so well as Ryan’s personal tailor could do but-- well, it was a curious thing. Why waste money on a suit that will never be as good as one that had been made _for_ him? It had to be intentional. It was a puzzle. Nevertheless, he was very handsome, with prominent features and a well cut figure. His eyes were black, and they glittered like the empty eyes of a shark. Ryan could see intelligence in those eyes, and a kind of hungry determination. He seemed like an ideal candidate for Rapture-- if looks could speak any to that sort of thing.   
  
**_Still, he’d expected the man to at least have a full head of hair._**  
  
He took his time centering his balance in the chair, watching Fontaine with a smug smile, all but chewing on the stem of his pipe. From his letters, the businessman had seemed young and earnest, eager to please the Great Man. The person looking at him across his desk had some of these qualities, yes, but Ryan could sense there was something more. He was perhaps not so young as Ryan had initially assumed-- though, he corrected himself, he was still younger than the King of Rapture. That was all very well, Rapture had been built for the young, the rising. Ryan was going to need a successor one day after all. This was no fascist oligarchy, he was not building dynastic rulership. Rapture was for the taking. And from the confidence with which this handsome young man strode into his office, Ryan found that he might be persuaded that he was the man for the job. He waited for Fontaine to enter, watching him carefully. This was an old technique. Force the other man to speak first, to beg his attention.  
  
“Mr Ryan,” Fontaine said briefly, nodding by way of greeting, and moving toward the desk. Success.  
  
He rose as Fontaine reached the desk, setting his pipe against the rack and wiping his hand on his handkerchief before offering it to shake.   
  
“Mr Fontaine,” he said shortly, the smile turning genuine. He feigned a glance at his watch, although he already knew the time. “Good of you to make finally join us.” Perhaps he was being a little strict with the man, but surely Fontaine knew just how important making a good impression was. It was not for him to make _Andrew Ryan_ wait, not for him to decide when the meeting began.   
  
“Frank, if ya don’t mind.” Ryan was taken aback by the accent. He’d heard it before, in New York, but he hadn’t associated with anyone who was so careless with the English language as to speak like that. For himself, he’d worked hard to perfect a clear, American accent. A determinedly vague dialect-- that of tv announcers and radio stars. Nothing like-- well, not like his parents.   
  
He kept the smile in place, although his brow wrinkled for a moment at the notion. Frank. He thought for a moment, deciding it would be ruder to ignore the man’s request than to use his given name, so he nodded.   
  
“Frank, then.”   
  
“Sorry I’m late.” Well, at least he had the presence of mind to apologise. “Couldn’t stop marvellin’ at the city you got here. You sure did pull out all the bells and whistles.”   
  
Ryan wasn’t sure about the colloquialisms, but he understood Fontaine’s tone, and bowed his head humbly as he took his seat again, nodding for the other man to take his. “Spared no expense, to be sure.” The reality of the situation was somewhat different, but the city was built on honest work-- not complete candidness.”Now Mr--” he paused, correcting himself, “Now, _Frank_. Let’s get to business. You’ve seen the city, I trust you like it, but we don’t simply allow people in without some proof of their own merit. Your letters are..” he lifted the corner of one of the letters in question, casting a critical eye at the younger man. In truth, he was ready to welcome Fontaine into the city with open arms. There were many here who deserved it less than he, and Ryan was almost eager to get down to brass tacks, to help the man set up here in Rapture. Still, he had to make the man work for it, he reminded himself, and he chose his words carefully. “Your letters were very compelling,” he went on, “but while I see how qualified you are to join our ranks, I’m afraid I just don’t know what it is you’ll _add_ to them.”  
  
Now it was Fontaine’s turn to smirk. The look suited him, far more than the innocent expression he had worn until now. He might have large deep eyes, but they crinkled nicely when he smiled, and his heavy eyebrows arched, lessening the shade that fell over his lids.   
  
“Add?” he said with a chuckle, pulling a crumpled box of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lighting one. “Why, Mr Ryan, I’d think that much was obvious.” Ryan noted with pleasure that Fontaine had used his title, rather than his christian name. The formality of it was a sign of respect, and that kept the Great Man’s interest, in spite of the way in which Mr Fontaine presented himself. The man sucked at his cigarette, eyeing Ryan with a sideways glance.  
  
“I’m not askin’ much,” he went on. “I’m sure you can tell, I’m a self made man. Came from dirt, clawed my way out with my fingernails--”  
  
“Mmyes,” Ryan interrupted him, waving a hand. “I remember your letters. Go on.”   
  
“If I can do it _up there_ ,” Fontaine nodded to the surface, “I think I can do it down here. Just set up something small, see where I can get myself.”   
  
Ryan considered this. He had no interest in little men, and he suspected Fontaine felt the same way. Yet here he was deliberately under-selling himself. What he’d achieved on the surface-- at least, what Ryan had heard he’d achieved-- was measures beyond this. Why start over fresh?  
  
“Your successes on the surface do not guarantee the same down here,” he said stiffly, rising to pour himself a whiskey. “Would you--?” He waved a crystal tumbler in Fontaine’s direction, who nodded heartily, rising himself. He took a final drag from the cigarette before crushing it in an ashtray on the desk.   
  
“We run things rather differently down here, as I’ve already explained to you.” He poured the drinks, handing one off to the other man, who was substantially closer to him than he’d have liked. His heavy odour almost overbore the rich scent of the expensive whiskey. Not that he smelled bad by any means. Just.. Ryan closed his eyes, bringing himself back to the conversation.   
  
“What sort of small business do you have in mind? I was under the impression that you were involved in trading, on the surface, or am I mistaken?”  
  
“You’re not,” Fontaine said, shooting his whiskey back with a swift motion. “Although I don’t remember mentioning the specifics of it to you. Been looking into me, Ryan?” He said it playfully, but Ryan’s look was sober. The gall of drinking such fine whiskey as though it were cheap vodka, coupled with the slight mockery, was more than enough to foster disdain in his spirits. He stepped back from the man slightly, so that he could enjoy the peaty scent of the whiskey, turning to look out the window as they spoke.   
  
“Of course, _Frank_ ,” The name was still jarring to his tongue. “I’d hardly have you here if my opinion of you was to be based entirely on your _word_. You see, most of my citizens _didn’t_ write to me. Most of them were invited, sought after. High profile people that I took great pains to relocate. You,” he turned back to look at the man, startled to find that he’d followed at Ryan’s shoulder, his empty glass set on the desk. “You--” he went on, although he found himself again distracted, “show great potential.” He took a sip from his drink, “But have yet to convince me.”   
  
“Oh, it’s _convincin_ ’ you want,” Fontaine smirked, moving between Ryan and the window. He wasn’t smirking anymore, not exactly. This was an altogether different look. “I can be very **_convincin_** ’” he said, and Ryan stiffened as he felt the man brush a few delicate fingers against his groin. He could mark it off as an accident-- he _would have_ marked it off as an accident-- had the man’s eyebrow not arched again, his tongue snaking out to lick his lips.   
  
“That’s not what I--” he breathed, stopping with a gasp as Fontaine caught hold of him and _squeezed_. He wasn’t the sort of man to be inclined towards relations like this, but stimulation was good no matter from whom it came and-- ah, he grit his teeth as the younger man rolled his fingers along the steadily hardening lump in his trousers. For a moment, he was lost.   
  
“No!” He suddenly remembered himself, remembered that there was a right way and a wrong way to conduct business and that this was most _definitely_ the wrong way. He stepped back a few inches, Fontaine’s fingers sending a little thrill up his spine as he did so. Yes, it felt good, but that had nothing to do with whether or not he should let the man into his city. If anything, it made him desire even less to have the man around. There were women throwing themselves at him left and right. This was hardly an effective bargaining tool.   
  
“We have no need for imports here, Rapture is to be entirely self sustaining. This city..” Oh, he was distracted. He felt a slight blush creep into his cheeks as he tried to keep from getting too flustered. “We have no need of--” He paused.  _“I hope you weren’t planning to get into Rapture on the merits of a handjob.”_   
  
Fontaine smirked at him, taking advantage of the space between them to drop to his knees, eyes gliding up to look at Ryan through dark eyelashes, licking his lips again. His lips parted slightly as he reached for the Great Man’s trousers and Ryan hesitated, uncertain how he wanted to proceed with this.  
  
“Hardly,” he said softly, tugging at the buttons. “I was just thinkin’ of trying something new. A fishing venture, maybe, or fine wines. I like to wing it.” He got the buttons undone and Ryan hissed slightly as Fontaine pulled the fabric apart to get to him. “This isn’t part of the bargain. I’m just… doin’ you a _favour_ ,” he said, the last word slightly muffled as he pulled Ryan’s cock into his mouth. The Great Man shuddered, his grip on the tumbler white knuckled. It was too late now. Why tell Fontaine to stop when he was practically aching with hardness. Besides it-- god, it felt so good. His mouth was hot, his lips tight around Ryan’s cock. He started a rhythm, his motions slow and determined.   
  
“You’re-- good at this,” he grunted, bracing himself against the window with one hand. “Got a lot of practise?” The words were mandatory, he felt. He chuckled, the sound turning into a low groan as Fontaine sucked him all the way in in one long motion, before pulling back to let go of him with a slight popping sound.   
  
“I try not to talk with my mouth full,” the younger man said, grinning up at the Great Man. He licked his teeth. “Unless that’s what you’re into?”   
  
“No, please--” Ryan said quickly, eagerly. “I’m sorry, don’t-- don’t stop.” Oh, he was weak. A few traces of pleasure, and he’d sacrifice just about anything. But how he loved the look of this man on his knees in front of him, sucking sloppily at his cock as though his life depended on it. His prick hit the back of Fontaine’s throat and he arched his back with the pleasure, the tumbler slipping from his hands to hit the carpet with a thud. Whiskey spilled, mixing with the pattern, but he didn’t care. His free hand slid shakily around to cradle the back of Fontaine’s head firmly, fingers digging into his scalp. A hazy glance down told him that the man looked less than pleased with this, but Ryan was too far gone to care.   
  
“F-fuck--” he managed, leaning against the window with an arm, pressing his forehead to the cool glass as his breath made little clouds on the pane in front of him. It was-- he was--  
  
His legs shook with the effort of standing and his hips were flexing and rocking uncontrollably, fucking Fontaine’s mouth with a fervor he didn’t know he possessed. Fontaine was clearly doing his best not to gag, but his hands grasped at Ryan’s thighs and he pushed him away, drool hanging between them as he gasped, “My place in Rapture?”   
  
“Yes-- yes!” Ryan pleaded, head lolling, supporting himself by the arm on the window.   
  
“You swear?”   
  
“Please!” The ache in his groin was agony, the fingers on the base of Fontaine’s skull desperate.   
  
“Good,” Fontaine murmured darkly, and there was a flash of cruelty behind his eyes as he returned his mouth to the task at hand. Ryan hardly noticed. He was too raptly focused on the press of Fontaine’s mouth and the heat of his tongue as he drove his loyalty home. There were stars in Rapture that night, behind Ryan’s lids, as he mewled and cried out, no longer his own master.   
  


 


	2. A Fuckin' Great Job

Ryan didn’t exactly have many male friends. It was nothing against his sex, he simply lacked much interest in involving himself with them. Much motivation. It wasn’t exactly to say that he had many female friends, either, only that he seemed to spend more time with a dame than otherwise. After all, women simply _adored_ him. While he loathed social obligations, he was very charismatic, very _charming_. He worked hard to keep a polished air of approachability about him. To remind his citizens that he was one of them; even if, deep down, he knew he was superior.   
  
Men, he associated with for business or athleticism. There was little to be _gained_ from merely spending time with them in the form of friendship, from putting forth the effort to make them _like_ him. He was polite, yes, but that was the extent of his troubles. Women, on the other hand.. Well, Mr Ryan was a man who appreciated women, for _all_ of their talents. He was a dreadful flirt and, more often than not at these events, he found himself surrounded by ladies, his mustache was tugged up at one corner to frame a smirk. He was confident, but quiet, which forced everyone to lean towards him when he talked, that they might smell the sweetness of his breath and the spice of tobacco that lingered on his clothes. And lean in they did. Everyone, women and men, positively hung on his every word.   
  
Diane was less fond of this.  
  
They had never spoken openly about his affairs, but she had to know. God knows he wasn’t subtle about it. She had a key to his flat, of course, but he was rarely there. He worked long hours at the office, often long past the course of ordinary business. The city was alive at all hours, without the sun to dictate when day began and ended. He’d heard rumours that it was causing unwanted psychological effects for some of his citizens, but for him it was perfection. There was always somewhere to go, something to do, someone to go home with. Diane was… fine, but Ryan needed more. He always needed more.   
  
This evening in particular, Ryan was lurking at the edge of a large party. He was far from invisible, he knew, but that didn’t mean he needed to be in the center of things. He was fine as he was-- an ornament to the gala, rather than a participant. He stood by the bar, a fresh drink in his hand, watching as his people danced and shouted to one another above the music. There was a sort of peacefulness in detachment, he thought, smiling to himself as he sipped his gin and tonic. It was good to be on top.

A hand at his shoulder and he glanced sideways, his look of fixed indifference relaxing slightly into a smile at the sight of who it was. Where their first meeting might have gone a little… strangely, he’d developed an uncomfortable sort of liking for the man who was approaching him. It wasn’t admiration, not really. He couldn’t admire someone so eager to kiss his feet, over and over again. No, it was something altogether different. He could see the younger man striving to be like him, and he felt an odd desire to actually help him.   
  
Glancing at Fontaine’s face, he saw with surprise that he had grown a small mustache-- not unlike Ryan’s own-- in the time since they’d last seen one another. One eyebrow raised, and his normally stoic expression melted into a smile.   
  
“Well,” he said, taking another sip from his drink to mask his humour. “this is new.”   
  
Fontaine looked rather put out.   
  
“Don’t laugh at me, Andy,” he said, a pained look on his face. “If you laugh at me, I’ll have to shave it.”   
  
The urge to laugh grew considerably at the comment, although some irritation niggled at him for the nickname. He pursed his lips, fingers of one hand brushing against Fontaine’s elbow.   
  
“It looks very handsome,” he said instead, trying to keep a straight face. He cleared his throat. “Really, it does. I think you should keep it.”  
  
Fontaine looked at him, eyes bright with obvious infatuation.   
  
“You think so?”   
  
“Yes,” Ryan said firmly, polishing off the drink and setting the empty tumbler on the bar to be refilled. “And don’t call me Andy.”

It was easier with Fontaine, perhaps because Ryan felt a certain degree of conquest. Where with women, he always had one goal, here too that goal applied. Fontaine was a good kid, he dropped to his knees before the great man at a moment’s notice. Anything for his hero, Ryan thought. And yet-- his feelings towards the man weren’t cruel, not necessarily. Sure, he liked getting sucked off as much as anyone, but he also liked moments like this. Fontaine was a good spirit to match wits with, even tempered and _terribly_ funny. Perhaps he _did_ have a male friend, he allowed himself to think, smiling down at the crowd below. Whatever it was, it was nice.   
  
“We should dance.” Fontaine said, offhandedly. Ryan’s mood immediately soured, he almost choked on his drink.   
  
“We should.. what?” He dabbed at the corner of his mustache with a handkerchief, eyeing the bald man suspiciously. He loathed dancing, and he didn’t especially savor the idea of selecting a girl at random just because _Fontaine_ wanted to dance.  
  
“You and me,” the answer came, along with a heavy smirk.  
  
“Absolutely not.” Ryan said shortly, positively glowering at the man. He absolutely refused to even entertain the idea. If he was going to dance, _and he was not_ , it would be with a woman.  
  
“Dames do it all the time, what’s the difference?” Fontaine put his hand at the small of Ryan’s back, gently but forcefully propelling him towards the dance floor.   
  
“The difference,” Ryan huffed, pushing the hand away and glaring at him, “is that we are not _dames_.” He straightened his jacket, neatly stepping away from the businessman and taking a seat at the bar. Perhaps he should call it a night, he mused, it had been a little more difficult to resist the man than he’d have liked it to be. Fontaine sat next to him. There was a moment’s silence, as Ryan evaluated the situation.

“I could make it worth your while,” Fontaine said with a sly look, one hand running over Ryan’s thigh.  
  
“Not here,” Ryan hissed, brushing the hand away and looking around to make sure no one had seen. He might not care for making friendships, but he certainly cared about his reputation.   
  
He didn’t check to see if Fontaine looked hurt. He didn’t care. This wasn’t a courtship. If Fontaine wasn’t man enough to deal with rejection, maybe he didn’t belong in this city. The silence was terrible, though, and Ryan decided that he could have one more drink before heading home. It’s the least he could do for a _friend_ , he decided. He nodded at the bartender, bumping shoulders with the man next to him perhaps a little more than he needed to.   
  
“Sorry,” he said finally, quietly. The word was drawn out of him by desire to end the silence, not by any real feelings of regret. Fontaine smiled sideways at him and he knew without a word that it was in the past. They were men, after all.

And so they had a drink, and another. Conversation came easily with someone he liked, and he found himself talking at greater length than he’d usually have reserved for a social gathering, offering advice and anecdotes and _listening_ \--truly listening-- to Fontaine’s ideas for the future of Rapture. He wasn’t half wrong, Ryan realised, he truly shared the Great Man’s entrepreneurial spirit. In what seemed like no time, his drink was gone, the clock striking nearly twelve.  
  
He wasn’t drunk-- not by any means-- but he was starting to feel nicely lightheaded. Starting to think maybe that dance wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all. Or.. No, he told himself firmly, as he rose with a waver, undoing the stifling button of his jacket and tossing down a few bills for the drinks, he was most decidedly not drunk. Fontaine had gone off after the last drink. Chasing a bird, Ryan assumed, or maybe even a fellow. He didn’t think of the man as being _one of those_ but it suddenly struck him how very little he actually knew about him. Perhaps his preferences _did_ lie that way, maybe that was why-- Ryan bumped into someone in the coatroom, apologising mutely as he fumbled around for his hat.

“Andy,” it was Fontaine, then.   
  
“I told you... not to call me that,” he mumbled, trying to push past the man. For a moment, Ryan very nearly believed that Fontaine was going to strike him. He moved in close, his face hard and determined-- and then kissed Ryan right on the mouth.   
  
This was new, this was unwanted. He had been fine with Fontaine sucking him off, bowing to him, but _kissing_ him? As if he was--  
  
He forced a laugh, pushing back from him abruptly. “Aha.. nice try, Frank. I might be a little tipsy, but I’m not _nearly_ drunk enough for--” but before he could say another word, he was pushed back against the coats, Fontaine’s mouth pressed hotly against his own. There was a heavy moment of indecision before he kissed back, hands scrambling to pull the man closer to him in the darkness, eyes squeezing shut to keep anyone from seeing.   
  
It was Fontaine’s turn to laugh then, to pull away from the embrace cruelly. For a breath, Ryan thought he felt the man’s fingers against his fly, before he had taken him by the arm and was pulling him from the coatroom. And into the blinding brightness of the hallway. They left, arms tangled around one another with no regard for who saw them. Ryan rather clung to Frank as he helped him along the sidewalk. He was laughing, he knew, and he was giddier than he’d been in a long time. He couldn’t think what was making him this way.   
  
Must be the alcohol, he decided, as they reached his front door.  
  
Bracing himself on Fontaine’s shoulder, Ryan squinted carefully at the coded entry, punching in the key with determination. As the door slid open, he turned to the younger man, smiling widely at him and extending his hand to shake. “Well, my friend, thank you-- thank you for getting me home safely. I’ll see you--”   
  
Fontaine put his foot against the door, keeping it from sliding shut. Ryan was sure he was laughing at him, sure the smile was one of mockery.   
  
“Not so fast, old man. Lemme get you to bed, at the very least.” He leaned in, a hand slipping around Ryan’s waist to support his weight as he helped him up the stairs.   
  
Ryan was sure Fontaine could see exactly where his mind jumped, from the heat that he felt rising in his neck. He knew it was innocent, that he desperately needed to be in bed with a large glass of water, but still he flushed nearly to his ears.   
  
He fell face first into the sheets with a smile, laughing with good spirits. He felt Fontaine trying to get his shoes off and helped, kicking them to the floor. Broad hands helped him wriggle out of his trousers, and he sighed happily, the crisp cool comforter swallowing him up as he lay his hot head in it. Hands ghosted up his side, helping him get off his dress shirt, and he shivered suddenly, feeling lips at the back of his neck. He turned back sharply, looking at Fontaine in a strange mixture of confusion and understanding. A pause, as Ryan racked his brains, trying to decide.  
  
“Andy..” Fontaine said softly, and their lips met again. It wasn’t sweet. It was perfect. A rough kiss, uncomfortable as it was brief. Ryan’s head was twisted around, his hands unable to find purchase in anything but the sheets.   
  
“Close the door,” he whispered, knowing he was sabotaging himself.  
  
Fontaine obliged, quickly and solemnly. He returned then to Ryan’s side, stripping off his own dresswear and climbing over him. This time the kiss was dear. Ryan was trapped beneath Fontaine and the sheets, turned halfway over to grasp at the man’s undershirt, to pull him closer. He was very vulnerable here, and very nervous, and was worried that at any moment, Fontaine might begin to laugh at him. He could feel rough hands tugging at the waistband of his underwear and breathed softly, silently begging the man to touch him. The lips dragged down along the back of Ryan’s neck, now pressing flurries of kisses-- now nipping against the skin as the king of rapture allowed himself to be pushed face down into the sheets.

Kisses left bruises against his shoulder blades as Fontaine teased him, his hand sliding beneath Ryan’s pants, over his thighs, but never touching him where he wanted it most. Had he been soberer, had he been able to see the man’s face, he’d have been ashamed-- but all he felt now was a wanton _need_.

Fontaine dragged Ryan’s hips back, pulling him into the curve of his own body. The great man could feel his friend’s own hardness stirring there, and nearly called the whole thing to a halt there and then. But the hand between his legs had worked its way to his groin and he was lost to the sighs and whimpers that threw an arch into his back at the other man’s touch.

A finger dipped into him and he cried out, grateful to the man at least for stopping, for taking his time. His breath made beads against his cheek as he panted into the sheets, his hips shaking as he felt Frank slip his finger out for something larger. There was a moment of fear as the finger left him, and he whimpered into the bed, glad for the man cradling him as he worked his way carefully inside. It was-- oh, it was terrible, but it sent bliss rattling through his bones and he bit his lip against protestations as he felt himself filled where he’d never before known he was empty. The bed creaked, and their breath came in small bursts as the younger man slowly ground out a rhythm into his mentor.

Oh, the sounds that he made were so undignified that they made his cheeks burn-- and he buried his face in the sheets, mouthful after mouthful of cotton keeping the moans from creeping under the door. One word escaped as he lifted his head to gulp in the fresh air. “Fuck-- fuck--!!” and then another. “Fontaine!” and “Fuck!” again.  
  
“That’s what I’m tryin’ to do,” the man grunted, thrusting gruffly into the king of rapture with no ceremony whatever. He wasn’t gentle, but it would have killed Ryan if he had been. Not once did he feel as though he was being played for a woman. The exercise was entirely masculine, all sweat and muscle, large hands clinging to large hands in the sheets. He wasn’t sure-- but he wasn’t uncomfortable either, and he found it very easy to surrender, to let Fontaine take what he would. If he had begged before, it was nothing to this.

Ryan mewled and cried out beneath him, eyes rolling behind fluttering lashes, broad shoulders heaving as he felt a familiar bile rising in his belly. “Fontaine--!” He gasped once more, before he fell, spilling into the expensive sheets with long shuddering twitches of his hips, bucking erratically back against the force of the man atop him. Fontaine’s hand was in his hair, slamming their bodies together with such speed that Ryan thought he couldn’t bear it, his body aching with the spend of his heat, the noises he made now loud and unstifled as the younger man pulled his head back in a final, back arching _grind_.

It was a new feeling, Ryan thought blurrily, this heat inside of him, this feeling of being filled by someone, rather than emptied. He tried to keep the feeling entirely physical, but he was afraid there might be some other element to it, something that lingered that night other than the wine dark bruises on his back. Fontaine wrapped an arm around his stomach as their hips twitched together, his breath hot against Ryan’s neck as he came down from his high.   
  
“A f-fuckin’ great job,” he said, sitting up to pull out. He slapped Ryan’s ass, and Ryan lay still, his mind reeling with what had just happened. “Nice work, old man.” Fontaine collapsed in the sheets next to him, panting, one arm thrown over Ryan’s middle, pulling him back into the curve of his body. Ryan didn’t protest, he just gazed off into the darkness soberly, an unfamiliar wetness sticking to his eyelashes.  
  
He couldn’t tell if Fontaine noticed, but the man pressed a kiss behind his ear, holding him close as he drifted off to sleep. “Honestly, Andy, you did good.”  
  
It was a long time before Ryan could answer, long enough that the other man was surely asleep, and he whispered it, his eyes wide open in the night. “Don’t call me Andy.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUST SOME MORE THINGS I NEEDED TO GET OUT OF MY BRAIN THX

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something I needed to write, I'm sorry if it's rubbish.


End file.
